


December 5th - Sweaters

by mind_and_malady



Series: December 2014 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen, Sweater Monster, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_and_malady/pseuds/mind_and_malady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really was an accident. How could Sam have possibly known that the box was cursed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 5th - Sweaters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetonmeclarence (redmasque)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redmasque/gifts).



> Did you know that it's stupidly hard to write something substantial with the prompt of _sweaters ___? It's possible, clearly, but I'm a day late and I had to resort to insanity to get it done. Sorry guys.  
>  For sweetonmeclarence. It was her prompt, after all.

For a while, it seems like nothing is wrong. Sam’s been digging through boxes that the Men of Letters left behind, but that’s not unusual. When Cas goes back to join him, it’s also not really weird, just means that Sam’s found something about angels. But when _Lucifer_ deins to enter the old, dusty storage rooms, Dean knows something’s up.

“What the hell?” It’s the only thing Dean can think to say, because seriously, _what the hell?_

There are Christmas sweaters everywhere. Literally _everywhere_. It feels like he’s just walked into some strange dimension where everything is made out of dyed wool and bells and lights. There are sweaters all over the floor and piling up by the walls, in every possible color from pure white to lime green to a black so dark that Dean has to call it _void_. They’re in hundreds of sizes, from tiny baby sweaters to something that looks like it belongs on a golem. Dean watches a few more fall into existence from nowhere, noting that a puke green one has three arms.

“I can explain,” Sam says quickly, slightly panicked sounding. Lucifer snickers, digging through the piles of sweaters, and Castiel raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“I certainly can’t,” he retorts, and Sam glares.

“There was a box in here I hadn’t opened yet,” he presses on. “But when I opened it, it was empty, even though it felt like it was really heavy. I thought it might just be the result of some kind of spell, but then the sweaters started falling.”

“They don’t seem to be stopping either,” Castiel adds, pulling a pastel pink sweater covered in silver sequins off of his head. “And we can’t find the box.”

“Cursed object?” Dean theorizes, and Sam throws up his hands.

“Maybe?” he says, exasperatedly flinging a dark blue sweater at Cas. “This feels more like a prank, really. Who curses someone with sweaters?”

“Maybe they’ll morph together to form some kind of knitting monster,” Dean muses, and Lucifer laughs, a touch derisively.

“If they were capable of any harm, I would have burned them,” he says. “But, since they aren’t, I thought  it wasn’t worth the effort. This type of spell isn’t made to last forever, either, so it will eventually wear itself down.”

A tiger-striped sweater falls on Dean’s head as a brown sweater with moose antlers drops into Sam’s lap. Both are quickly flung towards the walls, and Dean sighs. “As long as nothing else starts falling, we’ll be fine.”

A torrential downpour of mittens and scarves begins as soon as the words leave his mouth. All wool, all different sizes and colors, same as the sweaters. But now there are gloves and mittens and scarves, hats and ear-warmers scattered among them. The sweater pile grows about two feet in a minute, and then abruptly stops.

Dean groans, shoving wool away from his face and rolling out the door into the hallway. The mess of wool had spilled out into the hall, about a dozen sweaters and a smattering of mittens being the only escapees. He looks back into the room and sees Castiel blinking up at the ceiling before trying to stand, only to flail and fall deeper into the wool. With a sigh, he wades back into the room to help the angel up.

Sam’s already mostly standing, pulling out one leg and then the other to crawl over the top of the massive pile towards Lucifer, buried neck deep in wool and looking rather peeved about it. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, trying to shove the wool away, but more of it floods in. When Sam laughs, he scowls. “Stop that, this isn’t funny!”

“It’s hilarious,” Sam corrects, grinning, and starts pulling the wool away from Lucifer, whose attempts at removing the garments are less than helpful.

Once all of them are standing in the hallway, free of the four foot deep pit of wool, Castiel is the first to ask, “What do we do with them?”

“Burn them,” Lucifer says instantly, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I was clearly very wrong. These things are dangerous.”

Everyone ignores him. “Send them to a homeless shelter?” Sam pitches. Castiel nods, and Dean shrugs.

It takes them several hours to sort the mess, but eventually they manage to separate everything into piles by type, and then by size, folding everything into what turns into three dozen boxes. They keep a few things, hats and scarves and sweaters that they liked and that fit. The moose and tiger sweaters are forcibly kept, despite protests. Lucifer snags the void sweater, along with its matching hat, scarf, and gloves. Castiel takes anything that’s blue or green, only picking his favorites once he’s built up a decent pile. Sam finds a few sweaters in cream and burgundy, along with plaid scarves and hats. Dean takes a black sweater striped with blue, and the matching gloves and scarf, silently cursing the lack of a hat.

Everything else gets piled up into a trailer they find in the garage, and hauled along behind them to the nearest homeless shelter. The people there are grateful, if not astonished at the magnitude of the winter-friendly clothing. When they ask where they got all the sweaters, Sam responds cavalierly with, “They just sort of dropped into our laps.”


End file.
